23. Moon
23
MOON
T he hidden door clicked open, and I slipped into James’ studio, the faint scent of varnish and aged paper brushing against my senses as the panel slid shut behind me. The space was exactly as I remembered it—dust hung in the beam of light that spilled through the cracks, shimmering faintly, and the room exuded that same strange mix of creativity and abandonment that had haunted me since our first visit.
My heart pounded as I moved further in, my heels silent on the floor. I studied the scene before me for the second time — the large table in the room’s center, laden with canvases leaned against the walls in uneven stacks, their edges layered with dust and time. And the two easels, holding James’ unfinished works.
I didn’t know what I was looking for, but the weight of the space pressed down on me, pulling my focus to every detail. The paintings were as breathtaking as I remembered: sweeping landscapes of the Lowcountry, Charleston’s historic streets rendered in vibrant, layered oils, and gates inked with such precision that they revealed as much detail as a photograph. Every brushstroke was deliberate, every piece of his art filled with something that begged to be seen.
I stopped near the corner of the room, my gaze catching on something that felt out of place. Among the stacked and leaning canvases, one stood framed, unlike anything else in the room. The frame itself was modest—wooden, painted black, with a wire stretched across the back for hanging—but it struck me as strange. Why frame this one piece in a room full of unframed raw canvas?
I stepped closer, brushing my fingers lightly along the edge of the frame. The canvas depicted a map of Charleston, its streets winding like veins, the waterfront a vivid sweep of blue. I recognized it immediately; Conrad had photographed it during our first trip here. But as I studied it now, I couldn’t see anything unusual—no symbols, no markings that might hint at a hidden message.
Still, something about it felt important. A prickle of intuition tickled at the back of my mind, and before I could second-guess what I was doing, I turned the framed work around and contemplated the covered backing for a moment.
“Fuck it,” I whispered under my breath, gripping the edge of the paper backing. It tore easily, the sound loud in the quiet room, and as I pulled the wire and paper free, the frame fell away, revealing the bare canvas.
I sucked in a sharp breath, and for a moment, all I could do was stare. The back wasn’t blank.
The painting on the reverse side was nothing like the map. It was abstract, a riot of shapes and colors, with strange gruesome markings woven into the brushstrokes. It wasn’t pretty, but it was arresting—a whirlwind of chaotic symbols scattered from the center which featured a cracked eyeball. The cracks twisted into grotesque vines that led to markings that slashed the canvas is color, some tiny and subtle and others bold, almost like a language I didn’t understand. My heart raced as I scanned it, my fingers tracing the edge of the canvas.
This was it. This was what James had hidden. The front was a decoy—a simple map of Charleston—but the back? The back was something entirely different. A code, maybe. A legend. It felt like a major puzzle piece that we hadn’t even known was missing.
I rolled the canvas carefully, ditching the broken frame behind me. The fabric was stiff and awkward in my hands, but I figured the roll was thin enough to fit beneath my gown. I tucked it against my side as I headed to the studio door, leading back into Blanton’s office. My breath was shaky, the thrill of discovery mixing with the sharp pang of urgency. I needed to get this out of here.
Slipping back toward the entrance, I glanced over my shoulder once more, the studio quiet and still behind me. James had hidden this for a reason, and now it was our job to figure out why.
The canvas pressed against my side felt heavier than it should have, each step toward the office door stretching out the seconds. I paused, my hand resting lightly on the handle, before pushing through the false door that led into Blanton’s office. I walked in, but I stopped cold when I saw him. Lucien.
He was standing by Blanton’s desk, the ledger in his hands, flipping through its pages with a look of smug satisfaction. His tailored tuxedo was as sharp as the cruel smile that curved his lips when he noticed me.
“Well, well,” he said, his voice smooth as silk. “What a coincidence, finding you here.”
My mouth went dry, but I forced myself to stay calm, my fingers tightening around the rolled canvas at my side. “I could say the same,” I said evenly. “What are you doing in Blanton’s office?”
Lucien’s sinister smile deepened, and he closed the ledger with a deliberate snap, tucking it under his arm. “Blanton and I have an understanding,” he said, his tone casual but carrying an edge that made my skin crawl. “An intimacy, you could say. Something you might remember, if I’m not mistaken.”
The heat rose to my cheeks as the memory of the sex club and his unsettling presence flickered through my mind. He was toying with me, testing how far he could push, and I knew better than to take the bait.
“I was just grabbing something for Holden,” I said, lifting the rolled canvas slightly. “A family painting that belongs to him.”
Lucien’s gaze flicked to the canvas, his eyes narrowing as he stepped closer. “How thoughtful of you,” he said, his tone dripping with false politeness. “But that doesn’t look like the kind of painting Blanton would casually give away.”
I stood my ground, though my pulse hammered in my ears. “He’s not giving it away. Holden is his stepson,” I said firmly, though I could feel his presence bearing down on me, oppressive and sharp.
Lucien’s lips curved into a smirk, and my stomach churned as I noticed the brushed gold pin on his lapel—the crow perched on a key, unmistakable. My breath caught, but I forced my gaze back to his.
“You’re quite the actress, Moon.” His voice dropped lower. “Cool, composed, charming—the perfect mask. But I see through it. This role you’re trying to play? You’re not ready for it. Stick to being a sexy Kit Kat girl and leave the adult games to the grownups.”
The menacing comment shook me, but I refused to let it show. My grip on the canvas tightened as I forced a sharp smile. “Funny,” I said, my voice laced with defiance. “I could say the same to you. Your mask is slipping, Lucien, and I see right through it.”
The air between us felt charged, an unspoken duel waged in silence, sharp edges clashing beneath polite words. His smirk faltered for the briefest second before he stepped back, gesturing toward the door with mocking indifference. “By all means,” he said smoothly, the smirk sliding back into place. “Don’t let me keep you.”
I didn’t wait. I slipped out of the office and into the hallway, my adrenaline coursing as I heard the office door click shut behind me. My mind spun with the implications of what I’d seen—Lucien with the ledger, his pin, all of it.
When I slipped out of Blanton’s office, the hallway was quiet except for the soft hum of distant chatter from the gallery. Conrad was standing where I’d left him, leaning casually against the wall. He straightened as soon as he saw me, his brows furrowing slightly at the sight of my flushed face and the rolled canvas clutched tightly in my hands.
“Everything good?” he asked, his tone calm but tinged with concern.
I nodded quickly, brushing past him. “Fine, but we need to get out of here.” My words were clipped as I took the rolled canvas and slipped it under my gown, my panties holding it secure against my body.
Conrad fell into step beside me, his posture still relaxed, though his eyes flicked toward the office door. “What happened in there?” he pressed, keeping his voice low.
“Not here,” I said, glancing over my shoulder as we moved toward the gallery floor, my heart still racing. “Just—trust me. I’ll explain in the car.”
He didn’t argue, but I caught the subtle shift in his expression, the flicker of unease that crossed his face as we stepped back into the glittering opulence of the gala. Holden and Hendrix were waiting near a tall sculpture on the gallery floor, keeping within sight of Blanton and Fanny, who were schmoozing with guests. Their faces lit up with relief as they spotted us.
“About time,” Hendrix said, his grin fading slightly when he noticed my expression. “What’s wrong?”
I shook my head, my voice barely above a whisper. “We need to go. Now.”
Holden’s brow furrowed, his green eyes sharp as he glanced between Conrad and me. “What happened?”
I put a finger to my lips, hushing the conversation until we were safely outside and getting into our car.
As we quickly folded into Holden’s Jeep, the guys all stared at me with panicked impatience. “Lucien,” I said, my voice trembling slightly as I clutched the canvas tighter. “He was in Blanton’s office.”
“What the fuck!?” Conrad exploded, his tone sharper now.
“Goddammit, I stepped away for a couple minutes to take something to Blanton, and he managed to slip in the office while I was gone.” Conrad trembled with anger and worry. “I am so sorry, Moon. He could have hurt you, and I was just standing out there dicking around waiting.”
“I’m okay,” I reassured him. “He didn’t do anything to me, and I was able to learn some things.”
“He had the ledger,” I said, my stomach twisting at the memory of his smirk. “But he knows I have this.” I gestured to the canvas.
Hendrix’s expression darkened. “What did he say?”
“Enough to make it clear he’s involved in whatever this is,” I said, glancing over my shoulder again. “And he’s not just involved—he’s watching us now.”
The car fell silent as the weight of my words settled over us. Whatever Lucien’s plans were, one thing was clear: this wasn’t a game among equals—he was the fat cat, and we were the mice. He was already toying with us, waiting to see how far we’d run before he decided to strike.